


Unkindnesses

by xathira



Series: Prince of the Unknown [16]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Beast Wirt, Edelraven!, Flashback, Implied Torture, Other, Prince!Wirt AU, bad birds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22538743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xathira/pseuds/xathira
Summary: The showdown at the cabin reaches its climax...And it turns out Wirt has been visited by the raven more than anyone realized.
Series: Prince of the Unknown [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1516961
Comments: 35
Kudos: 141





	1. 🙞Deception🙜

**Author's Note:**

> I know I jump around the timeline a lot... think of this installment as a "sandwich." The first and last chapters are the present, directly following the events of "The Cabin." The second and third chapters bring us back to those days in "Murder-Conspiracy" where nobody had any idea where Wirt went. I tried to be as clear as possible but here's a note just in case!
> 
> Edit: Oh - and before I forget. I believe Subtle_Shenanigans was the first person to use the term "Edelraven" in a comment on one of these parts. Thank you for that perfect term, SS. ;)

Beatrice arrives at the cabin in the worst shape of her life. She’s been shivering, sweating, and swearing for so many days that sunrises and sunsets have blurred into a delirious fugue. Her whole journey—from the mill to wherever the hell she is now—is a long pyretic farrago that takes an eon to complete, and even when she steps foot on the homestead a voice at the back of her mind whispers that she’s still asleep on a bed of clover somewhere, tossing and turning and burning alive. The one thing she knows for sure is that she’s been chasing The Beast… or that he’s been _leading_ her somewhere. Wirt has placed breadcrumbs for Beatrice over winding miles: obvious trails of purple vinca and marigolds the color of nectarine flesh when it’s daylight; maddening glimpses of his faraway eyes at night. He has allowed her to get close enough to him that her fever wavers like a fading coal, only to disappear a breath later, leaving Beatrice in the throes of inner combustion.

He strung her along. He’s been aware all this time that Beatrice is tracking him. Either he _wants_ her to find him… 

Or he hoped that she would give up in the woods, alone and far from home. And Beatrice, the stubborn huntress, has been charging toward her own downfall—unaware that she is in fact the hunted.

It should be a relief when she claws her way through the wall of thorns to reach the end of the breadcrumb trail. The smolder that wracked her body disappears as if it never existed. A pre-storm wind rakes cool fingers through her tangled hair and dries the sweat pasted to her skin. Fear replaces her blood with snowmelt when she sees The Beast—he’s a twisted abomination of blackness roaring at her from across the front lawn, limbs bent into the wrong shape and eyes whirring, his edges distorted under the overcast firmament—but her fury makes her brave. 

A stone flies true from her slingshot to distract the monster before he reaches the Woodsman and—more importantly—his lantern; when The Beast sucks in more air to scream she sends another projectile into his chest, and the unholy sound he makes at her might be pressurized steam shooting through a crevice to boil her alive. 

While The Beast is momentarily inert with rage, Beatrice advances on the Woodsman. She does not consciously _plan_ to steal the lantern—her grip springs out of its own accord, fingers closing around the handle and pulling it away from the old man with the natural surity of a bird plucking a bug from the sky. Her fever had been banished by The Beast’s proximity… but something else suffuses her with the lantern in her possession. It is not scalding heat, nor soothing cold. She feels no dread as she hoists the lantern up so that her face is haloed in pale light, though she thinks she should feel a _little,_ what with the soul of evil hanging from her grasp. Instead…

Peace. Or rather—a _stillness,_ as if by stealing the Dark Lantern Beatrice has also stolen the eye of a catastrophic hurricane.

Without illness to muddy her thoughts, Beatrice stands with a clean, pure anger matched only by that of the livid creature facing her. She opens the lantern’s window with a strum of her finger. The Beast twitches, gaze locked on the movement, and falls totally quiet.

“Let them go, Wirt… or I’ll _kill you,_ and let them go myself.”

For a brief minute, The Beast doesn’t answer her. The Woodsman—who’d been there to witness the terrible price of extinguishing the devil’s flame—utters a panicked gasp. In her peripheral vision Beatrice sees the elder’s mouth working as he struggles to find words that would dissuade her or convince her to hand back the lantern, and her clutch tightens on that precious bargaining chip until her knuckles go bloodless as polished marble. She means what she said. If… if killing Wirt and… taking his place gives her the power to undo what he’s trying to do here, she’ll…

The Beast chuckles, and the soft vibration in the air is spiders running up her back. “Y͆o̓ű m̅a̅d͒e̓ ̉i̚tͯ,̈ ͩB̓l̚u̓e̅bird,” he hums. He doesn’t sound like Wirt; he sounds like a nightmare imitating Wirt’s voice. “I thought you’d given up on chasing me. Are you sure you don’t want to lie down and rest, like Anna here?” 

Beatrice had noticed the Edelwood growing in front of the cabin—how could she not? It had been given a station of honor just a yard or so from the cabin’s porch, as if The Beast had intentionally placed it there for theatrical effect. The girl trapped inside cries as hard as the misshapen trunk allows her to. Bark frames her miserable face, and leaves are already spreading on the slender twigs. Beatrice’s own ribs twinge from empathetic pain… she remembers Greg with roots burrowing into his skin and cannot imagine what’s happening to Anna within her wooden prison.

The Beast scuffs back until he looms next to the Edelwood again, his stare chained to Beatrice and the lantern. He traces his claws lightly down the grooved bark… a warning to Beatrice and the Woodsman that he has something to bargain with, too. 

The old man swivels his itching attention from Beatrice to the Edelwood, the Edelwood to the Beast, and his manic too-fast motions have Beatrice toeing carefully away in case he decides to attack her. She understands that the entombed girl—Anna—must be his daughter… and while that knowledge sits heavy in her stomach Beatrice doesn’t think she can trust the Woodsman to successfully negotiate out of this. Anyone could evaluate his worrisome deterioration; he’s too far gone, too close to this horrific situation. _Beatrice_ is in a better position to talk The Beast down. _She’s_ the one who can bend things in her favor, because at least for right now her family isn’t on the line.

Of course, her foe could simply choose to disappear and wait for her fever to incapacitate her before rushing for the Dark Lantern himself. The possibility strikes her like a slap, and Beatrice wonders with a sudden swoop of terror when The Beast will figure that out. 

“Let. Them. Go.” Her tone, miraculously, does not shake. It’s the Beast who trembles, as if he can feel how her breath strokes the vulnerable fire currently exposed to the elements.

“Are you really going to kill me?” His syllables vibrate through the soil, rich as a purr and deep as a growl. The wall of thorns—rising high as the forest canopy—rattles out a sound like chattering teeth as its vines weave tighter together. “Come now. I thought you wer̬e͍ ̰s̤m̭a̙r̜t̥e̝r̟ ͔t͇h̫ạn̜ ̟t̼h̞a̟t̪.̝.̜.”

From where he’s dropped to his knees, the Woodsman moans and buries his face in his hands. Beatrice does her best to ignore him, to focus, even though she can _hear_ the glissade of Edelwood roots seeking both of them under the soil.

The Beast takes a sweeping stride from his hostage toward Beatrice. Her whole body jolts, injected with adrenalin, but she cannot run from him—there’s nowhere to go. He could catch her in those wicked brambles and pry the Dark Lantern from her while she bleeds on the thorns. 

The lantern’s handle creaks in her shaky fist and she peels her lips from her teeth in an expression of reckless defiance. In her other hand, her slingshot droops like a noose. Out of ammo. “I’m n-not kidding, _Beast._ You don’t scare me.”

With each placement of his hooves, new bouquets of briars coil up from the ground; several meandering vines braid themselves around the base of Anna’s Edelwood and the girl bawls out a wail that has her father frantically shouting her name. Beatrice seethes in frustration, hesitating to act and hating herself for hesitating. She doesn't want to kill Wirt. Even with insurmountable evidence that there may not be a better option, Beatrice is stubbornly mulling over another way out—a way to somehow save them all. Maybe she can appeal to his soft side. Maybe she can promise forgiveness. The last of those accursed ravens she saw had been a mile or so back and she hasn’t noted any in _this_ vicinity so maybe she just has to be patient and Wirt will snap out of it, he’ll remember who he is, he’ll cast off that damn cloak of shadow and grin at her sheepishly and admit he lost control. He will thank her for bringing him back… he’ll be _Wirt_ again.

Except every time The Beast opens his mouth he sounds less like Wirt and more like the thing he’d replaced.

“Would you extinguish my flame and replace it with yours, Bluebird? _Go ahead._ Put me out of my misery. And when _you’re_ burying corpses in the woods and making your family’s life a living hell, know that I am free—free and mocking you for your predictable, thoughtless stupidity.” 

Each word bruises Beatrice’s insides. She’s shocked, honestly, at the accuracy of his aim… he knows just how to hit her, and she wonders numbly where her blundering friend learned that ruthless skill. 

The Beast is five steps from Beatrice. The sky is charcoal and soot and dark steel-blue. The lantern’s flame blazes ivory in its center with a radiant corona of cerulean, rose, gold, and every hue in between. “That’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?” A perversely amicable murmur, as if he’s sharing a secret. “Acting without thinking? Making mistakes that ruin everything for e̐v͚͗e͒̀rͯỵ̪ó̿n̲ͬë̺́ a̳͉r̩͔ő̹u̘ͯnd you?” 

Four steps. Thorns climb over the toes of Beatrice’s boots. She starts to speak, acid on her tongue, and The Beast monologues mercilessly over her. “It was _your_ fault your family was cursed. The only reason they’re human today is because of _me,_ a loser with a pair of magic scissors that you couldn’t even get yourself without ruining more innocent lives. Selfishness is always your first instinct, isn’t it?” 

Three. Beatrice can only swallow around the thickness in her throat. She wants him to shut up. Wirt would never say that… he knows that her guilt never really leaves her, that her genuine regret is a harsher punishment than anything her loved ones could invent. “Selfishness is why you helped me in the first place, right? When you found me full of arrows?” _No,_ Beatrice thinks, and bites the inside of her cheek. She’d wanted to find Wirt. She was worried about him. She should have gone back for him sooner, but she already apologized for that—he _knows_ she’s sorry. Doesn’t he? “You thought that taking me in would atone for a͈̼b̓a̮̗n̍̀d̍ȏ͓ni̜̮n̲͌g͙̙ m̻ͅe̻͉ in the first place. You keep trying to ‘fix’ me, to ‘save’ me, never considering that I might be better off it you just _left me alone._ And then you have the audacity to be angry when I'm true to my own nature! Why do you think I led you here? Why are you so͓ ̞e̥a͙s̜y̫ ̤t̹o̳ ̞m̲ḁn̘ip̝u͈l̼a̙t͎e̤?̣” 

Two. She should move. She needs to _move._ “I’d hoped you would g̯ͬi̺̣v͑͗ë͍ u͚ͭp͗͂ out there. Imagine my surprise when you pushed onward as if you had a chance. You fell for a trap, Bluebird. You and the Woodsman both. I am k͛̄ill̐i͇͒ṋ͑g̣̎ ́tw̤̥oͥ͛ b̯͓ird̤̀s͕̫ ̩̀ẘ̟it́hͬ ͈̱o͂̐n͙͋e͋̂ ̝̾st͚͋oͨne͗.” 

One.

The Beast towers closer to Beatrice than she’d ever allow him to normally, and still she tilts her chin up at him, mutinous, her jaw locked tight despite the moisture glistening at the corners of her raw red eyelids. When The Beast’s contorted hand lashes toward the lantern she jerks her shoulder back—fluttering the soul-flame like a flag—but his reach is longer and his talons seal themselves over her knuckles, around the lantern’s handle, and Beatrice’s heart leaps as if to escape her chest.

“What are you doing?” Beatrice asks hoarsely. Why does this feel like a scripted performance? Why is she still holding back, expecting Wirt to suddenly wink at her and tell her this is all for show? That he made a mistake and went too far? _Sorry, Beatrice, I didn’t mean it. Sure had you fooled, didn’t I?_

"That's not the question you wanted to ask me, B͈ͣl͍u̼e͎̬b̝i͉͋r̈́ͭḍ̾." The Beast contracts his fist, talons digging into Beatrice's wrist so that her fingers spasm around the lantern's handle. "Go on. Look around you."

She tries to yank her hand free. Three tears run shamefully down her cheekbones as her eyes rove the front lawn of the cabin again, cataloging a weeping Anna and the distraught Woodsman but not… "Greg… where is he? Where's your brother, Wirt?!"

The Beast begins to twist Beatrice’s wrist ever so slightly back. She fights him, scrambling to put up a tough front by digging in her heels and angling her body with his manipulations, but she cannot quash the pained whimper that leaks between her firmly pressed lips.

“G̀̇o̠̟n̫ͅeͪ́.” That word sinks into her like roots, like rot. Her despair opens like the hood of a death cap mushroom, pale as bone. “And don’t say my name as if you know me, as if we're friends, you med̫d̠l̲e̪s͎o͖m̰e͖, s̼e̼l͈f̬-̙c̳̖e̝̖n̼̜ṭ̺e̙̟r̲͈̜e͔̜͙ḏ̝̻ ̫̗̫B̭͔̤ḷ̯̩̝u͙̦͖͉e̫̝͇̫—"

She headbutts him. His nose cracks under the force and he rakes air past his incisors and staggers backward; Beatrice tears herself away from him, posing so that The Beast will have to bodily move her to get back to the Dark Lantern. “Shut _up,_ ” the young woman spits at him, actually _spits at him,_ because betrayal tastes so acrid and sharp on her tongue she cannot stand it. Next to her cheek the spirit-fire gutters with each forceful syllable. "You d-don't get to talk to me like that… I’m keeping this lantern, you hear me? You are never, _ever_ getting it back.” She drags her sleeve under her watery eyes. “Now, for the last time—leave them alone. I’m _ordering_ you, Beast. Stop scaring them. Get the hell away from here, and don’t come back.”

Something drips from The Beast’s chin. _He’s bleeding,_ Beatrice realizes. She should feel satisfied, but she’s too confused by the way he cants his head at her, contemplative, instead of screeching and attacking.

“Ỳ̥o̫͛u͋ ͎c͙̊ã͙l͙̃l͔̘ḛ̗d̼̒ ̖m͗̉y̆ ̓ͯb̬́lu̍̍f̘̯f͋͊…” A low gnar accents the velvet in his voice. “That’s fine. I have all the time in the world to wait for you to let your guard down. Take good care of that flame—”

" _Die, you bastard!_ " Three words bellowed with mindless madness directly behind Wirt. “ _Die, die, die!_ ”

Heavy footsteps rush them both. Beatrice blinks at a glint of stained metal chopping toward The Beast—toward _her_ —and she freezes like a prey animal. The Beast is faster than she is. He’ll dodge the arc of the Woodsman’s hatchet and she’s about to get a blade in the chest. She visualizes the spray of her blood before it happens. Her muscles brace for the unavoidable impact, as if by sheer force of will she can make herself as impervious as solid diamond. Her thoughts speed until the scene slows into distinct frames… the axe coming down, down, down.

The blow slams her backward so hard she hardly keeps her footing. But there's no gush of red, no mortal pain sundering her in half. The Beast's arms are stretched forward from shoving her. His spine bows and his head snaps back when the Woodsman hits _him_ between the shoulders instead, blade whacking bone with a wet crack that makes Beatrice think of her father splitting a watermelon for summer—and her stomach convulses, slingshot dropping from her hand so she can cover her mouth. 

The Beast doesn't scream. He makes the world a void from which his shocked white eyes are the only stars. 

With a vicious shout, the Woodsman rips his axe free. The Beast utters a broken snarl. It isn’t until Beatrice keens “ _Wirt?!_ ” that the antlered demon acknowledges her again, this time with a shrill that pierces her ears and kicks the slate-colored midday light back into existence. He pounces forward, claws spread wide; Beatrice doesn’t think, she just _runs,_ away from The Beast and the Woodsman and the girl in the Edelwood and into the palisade of thorns, the open lantern clanging in her grasp. She cringes prematurely upon pushing through the initial knots of spiked vines—yet the briars unravel subserviently wherever Beatrice aims the lantern’s naked glow and outline a path that she can _just_ edge through, barring the stray hooks that snare her hair or draw lurid lines on her arms. Abruptly she is free of the incarcerated homestead and sprinting full speed to anywhere, anywhere at all, as long as it isn’t _here._

The sun is starting to set when Beatrice’s wind fails her and she falls against a tree, gasping loudly for oxygen. She has no idea where she’s ended up; there are no signs of The Beast, nor any recognizable landmark. Clouds are still spun so densely across the atmosphere that a washed-out green has replaced glorious oranges and dazzling violet-reds. At some point in her panicked flight the lantern’s window had swung shut; she shakily holds it up to study the flame rippling within, her heart aching and her muscles limp as ribbon. 

She hiccups out a bitter cry before she can swallow it. Wirt had trapped an innocent girl and tormented an old man to seize this precious lantern… and now, with Beatrice holding it, nobody got what they wanted. Any bargain that might have happened is ruined. _She_ ruined it.

The Beast was right. Selfishness is always her first instinct.


	2. 🙞Conditioning🙜

Rewind to the night that Greg appeared in the Unknown— _really_ appeared, a fully physical body, a fully present soul, which Wirt could sense like a sunbeam on a dark day.

Wirt falls asleep trying, and failing, to track the raven after if escapes his clutches at the mill. The Unknown lets the evil bird slip through his awareness like oil running through his fingertips, unable to properly obey The Beast’s will no matter how intently Wirt focuses. When he awakens in the morning his head still pounds with the fading ebb of a migraine; he makes a request of the robins that cheerfully greet their Lord to warn him if the raven approaches again.

The robins—and many more birds, plus the tree-dwelling mammals—react immediately to the black-feathered trespasser as soon as it dares to encroach on The Beast’s territory a second time. Wirt catches the raven before the sun has completely risen; the raven falls apart when he brings it to Beatrice; Wirt mistakenly believes his troubles are over. He and Beatrice have their first proper fight, both of their emotions running high from circumstances out of either of their control. Perhaps it is a fight they _needed_ to have, after everything they’ve endured for one another’s sake.

Wirt’s sullen anger makes rain pour over the mill all day long. The storm washes away the sunset and makes night a loud, percussive thing, corroded by the tactile roll of thunder.

The raven returns to antagonize the young Beast. This time, it is not alone.

🙞 ------------------------- 🙜

Greg spends his second night at the mill having not properly seen his brother all day. He never realizes that Wirt sees _him;_ The Beast sneaks as close to the little house as he dares in the flowers that grow by the windows and in the trees that form some of the adjacent grist mill’s repaired walls. It’s basically Beastly eavesdropping. Unfortunately, Wirt cannot stay for too long in any spot without his resentment decaying the flora he hides in, and so when the sun sets he’s only spent about half the day spying on Greg… and the other half gnashing his teeth in the surrounding woods, pouring every last drop of his copious teenage angst into the pouring rain.

“He’s _my_ brother,” Wirt mutters to himself for perhaps the hundredth time since that morning. He wrings his long, pointed fingers together—then remembers the sensation of the Edelraven disintegrating between his knuckles and tosses his hands away from each other in disgust. Back turned to the mill, sitting in a wedge formed by sassafras roots, his glower scalds the mist. Raindrops draw patterns down his morose expression and collect in the petals of his antler-blossoms; Greg had said that Wirt looked like a princess, but he feels _ugly_ now, ugly and wrong and not at all like royalty. 

The cast iron sky and his angst-ridden solitude raise unpleasant memories. It used to be like this at home: Wirt alone with the uselessness of his frustration… and Greg being included, protected, and so goddamned _likeable._

“They’re probably fawning all over him now,” Wirt tells himself, mood sinking darker. He’s listened to Greg alternate whining about visiting him with giggling over stupid games (what the _hell_ is “Beast Tag”? Sounds downright insulting) all afternoon. Beatrice’s vitriol regarding The Beast was not lost on Wirt as he lurked in the magnolia growing closest to the house; the rest of her siblings weren’t exactly jumping to Wirt’s defense, either. “They probably forgot all about the freak in the woods…”

It’d be impossible to count all the evenings he holed himself up in his old bedroom, sick to his stomach with the conviction that he didn’t belong in his own home. Wirt lifts his face to the interlocking lacework of the forest canopy and allows the rain to cool the sting in his eyes. Yeah. This is familiar. This seems about right. The only thing that’s missing is Greg barging in to embarrass Wirt for feeling depressed—or, _worse,_ Greg’s father knocking on his door. 

_Wirt… can I have a word, buddy?_

_Hey, Wirt, what’s wrong? You want to talk about it?_

_We’re just worried about you, sport. I know it’s hard to open up, but maybe you’ll feel better._

Deceptively kind words that all implied the same thing: it was not acceptable for Wirt to be anything less than the walking beam of sunshine that was Greg.

Wirt does not miss his stepfather’s pity. It used to worm so far under Wirt’s skin he imagined it bulging upward like a bloated vein. Why did everyone make such a point to inform Wirt that he needed fixing? He KNEW, damn it! He knows it still! His mother and _that man_ wondered constantly what to do with this sad, pathetic weed of a teenager until Greg came along… they realized what a son _should_ be, and set about trying to remake Wirt into something he is not.

Something he will never be. 

And now Greg is accomplishing what he’d already done in Wirt’s past life: conquering the delicate space Wirt had built for himself.

A self-pitying whimper pinches Wirt’s throat. His final snoop on Greg after sunset had been a soundbite caught from the window of the boys’ room: Beatrice’s brothers all wishing Greg goodnight and ensuring he was comfortable. “Sleep tight little bro,” Bram had said, and for some reason _that_ was what had sent Wirt crying into the trees, draining himself away from the ivy that crept up the side of the house and past the river. He’d been so _stupid!_ Wirt let that family fool him into thinking he mattered, that there was something precious here he could ruin, when all along he could _never_ be a proper part of the family—not like _Greg_ can be. 

A hideous sound boils at the deepest part of Wirt’s breast. He hopes the family is cozy in their snug little cottage, because he’s not about to cancel this storm until Beatrice apologizes for treating him like a monster _right_ when he’d been closest to rescuing his humanity. 

Wirt lifts his seismic growl behind his teeth and pounds one of his fists against the sassafras supporting his spine. Its pain strikes him back—a quick ache that startles him from his anger—but then a second spark follows the first, and Wirt realizes these pangs aren’t coming from the tree. They hit him like pebbles tossed from the darkness. Frantic. Frightened. Scattered notes of discordant birdsong whistle through the drowned darkness and Wirt clambers to his feet, childish jealousy forgotten. 

He understands what is going on, even if it has never happened on this scale before: the birds are calling for _help._

“I’m on my way, I’m coming, I’ll be right there…” Hooves spring across the slick terrain. Distress calls cut through the drum of precipitation in multiple directions, most of them ending abruptly in a flinch of pain. Wirt would spread himself into the forest to see what was wrong, but he isn’t sure how he’d help without a physical body to rescue the animals. He keeps his limbs solid and his anxious eyes scanning the treetops; soon he’s moving right through a space where he’d _thought_ there was trouble, but presently is just… quiet.

Disturbingly quiet.

“But… I swear I heard…”

Distant lightning casts a brief frame of uncanny brightness over the Unknown. Wirt growls through the accompanying thunder… and stops when a fraction of that brightness remains glimmering above his head.

The festering resentment he’d left behind at the sassafras reemerges and quadruples. Greg’s oil would taste _divine,_ flavored with the ambrosia of revenge. He’ll make the little rat pay for insinuating himself on _Wirt’s_ territory, for robbing Wirt of the affection and attention of the family that _Wirt_ had labored to earn. Greg belongs in the dirt, _beneath_ Wirt—the only way The Beast will tolerate Greg rising above him is in the form of a new Edelwood—

“You—you f-fell apart!” Wirt gawks at the Edelraven judging him from the twigs of a maple; its colorless stare shimmers off the wet leaves and stokes Wirt’s animosity until it is a breathtaking hatred. Greg would be duped easily outside where Wirt could abduct him… Greg is foolish and trusting and Wirt always _was_ smarter—

A wordless roar vibrates from The Beast’s open maw. He drops in place, eyes screwed shut and palms clapped over his ears to block out whatever it is that the raven uses to unhinge him. Wirt is upset about how Beatrice treated him and how Greg is better liked than he is and how nothing is fair and everything sucks but he won’t think those vile things about his brother, he _won’t,_ he loves Greg. He loves Greg and he will not hurt him, no matter how violently he wishes to.

“You’re just a bird… just a damn bird, yͦo͗u̜ d̓o͎nͭ'̀t c̈onͨt̄rͭo̿l͌ m͊e͒…” His exhales sound more like those of a panting bear. When he slits one eye open to peer up at the maple, the raven has not stopped staring at him; the way its eyes glow in the rain makes the falling droplets look like sparks thrown from grinding metal. Malevolence doesn’t radiate from the raven so much as it _consumes,_ robbing Wirt of courage the way dry ice sucks warmth from the air. It is… a dangerous nothingness. 

A dangerous nothingness crouched where Wirt heard birds begging for help.

Wirt does his best not to look away from the raven as he straightens his legs. Random warning calls have stopped piping through the woods. There are no more miniature strikes of pain and fear. He’d like to think that it’s because the birds feel safer with him nearby, or that the danger has passed…

But then the raven cocks its head at him and nudges a meager something from the bough it rests on. The tiny lump drops and Wirt catches it without thinking.

It’s a goldfinch. In daylight, it would be as yellow as a sunflower, but night leeches away its cheerful color. Smears of oil and blood stain its wet feathers. Its head lolls in Wirt’s palm. His anger is drilled by a hole of grief. 

“You… y-you did this? W-why did you h-hurt it?” Wirt opens and closes his mouth as if he must masticate his words before they are small enough to speak. Perhaps it’s because his best friend spent time as a helpless songbird that he cradles the dead finch carefully to his chest instead of dropping it, even though it cannot feel comfort or abandonment either way. “All I w-want is for you to leave me alone… y-y-you’re the true Beast, right? Why can’t you just _st̜ǎ͎̯y̻̱̘ ̖d͖̒ě͇a̰d͆?_ ”

_Oh dear, u̲̻s͇̊̃û̠̘̝r̖p̦͋̓e͈r̆,_ says a voice in Wirt’s head. _Shedding tears o̮v͍̲e̻r̤ s̺̬͆o̥̊m͙̠ͧe̲̼̅ siĺ̬̈́l̼̞̇y ḅ̅̌iͭrḏ͐s?_

A hostile pressure shoves against Wirt’s stomach and flattens a gasp from his lungs. The raven croaks, spreads its wings, and he hears his stepfather’s voice: _I just don’t ̘u̖̪͍n͉̬͍d̦͉̣e͕̲̞r̯̟̠s̥͙̭t̥̳͎a̼͍͇n͎̮ḓ what you’re sad about, son. Maybe if you looked at this from another angle…_

“SHUT UP!” The loathing that constricts python-like around all thoughts of Greg and Beatrice suddenly lashes out at the infuriating bird. Wirt grabs a small rock out of the mire with his free hand and—inspired by Beatrice—projects it as hard as he can at his tormenter.

He misses. The Edelraven blinks, unimpressed, and hops off its perch to glide deeper into the woods.

Wirt lurches forward to follow… but without the raven distracting him with repugnant emotions and ventriloquist tricks he can actually take inventory of his environment. He holds the limp goldfinch to his galloping heart… a heart that breaks at little more at the grim scene that greets him.

The heavy rain has washed away most of the forest’s rich tapestry of scents; only now with cortisol spiking his blood does Wirt catch the metallic note that lingers under the petrichor, the smell of death he’d thoughtlessly associated with the Edelraven and nothing else. “Oh… oh n-no…” He does not need the lightning to illuminate the forest floor—his own irises do that for him, engraving the patchwork carpet of mulch and roots with a hue that belongs only in poison.

Dead birds pile on top of one another in the spreading puddles. Robins with their necks snapped. Sparrows whose wings hang on by a tendon. Bluejays nearly plucked bare. All the carcasses are discarded like so much trash around the undergrowth. Wirt turns to the side and dry heaves until his sides hurt. There’s no way the raven acted alone. It was supposed to be offal and bones in the flower field but it’s right here _taunting_ him and killing his non-human charges...

Why? Because the raven knew it would hurt him? Because the birds had warned Wirt when the raven came back this morning?

What kind of vicious, underhanded _pettiness_ is that?!

"Get b-back here! F-f-face me you—y͓̟̓o̿̔́u̐̾̾—"

Whatever he wants to call the raven is lost in a jagged snarl. Wirt might have a reindeer’s hooves but he lopes like a wolf, darting after the flicker of the raven's lamplight with teeth clenched. He holds his poor bundle of dirty yellow feathers carefully close while his other claws twitch open and shut with the desire to _rip_ and _rend._ The raven is going to be nothing more than a smear of oil when Wirt is done with it. 

Singularly focused upon the receding gleam of his foe, Wirt does not register the subtle upward climb of terrain, nor how the mill has shrunk to the size of a dollhouse in the distance. No more desperate bird calls pierce the constant _rat-tat-tat_ of water on leaves; the only avians left in this part of the woods are dead ones, in the same sorry shape as those that Wirt already passed. He splashes past their mangled corpses without really seeing them… his rage tunnels his razor-sharp vision like the sights of a gun and he’s closing in, the raven can’t outpace him in this weather, if he wants to he can launch himself from one of the trees the raven has to slalom past—

With a thought, Wirt is a late-blooming wild pear. He extends himself into the outermost twigs to snare the raven’s wings, immobilizing it, and then the twigs are his talons and he’s falling to the ground with the raven replacing the goldfinch pinned tight against his sternum. His ferocious grip spasms the instant he hits the mire on his side; the raven struggles, perhaps hoping for an opening, but Wirt wraps his claws about its body with so much force he feels its hollow bones bend.

“Whaͫ͛t̻̲͙ d͈͂ͭọ̮͈ ̔y͙͒̊ő͒̚u̪͗̓ ͅw̘͛͊a̝̜n̤t? Why are you f-following me? Why did you— _how_ did you k-kill all those birds? M̟͒̉Y bi̖̔r͖͉̦d̩̳ͥs̲̭̐?!” Wirt doesn’t trust himself to glare directly at the raven. Instead, he screws his eyes shut against the scorch of its gaze and the flow of his furious tears and shudders with cold and an unbearable compulsion to smash the thing in his hands to putty. He wants to kill the raven so badly, to take it apart the way it took apart the warblers and the grackles and the cardinals, he is _ill_ with the desire to destroy it, but Wirts needs answers more than he needs to enact vengeance. “S-say something… _please._ ”

Seconds pass like sap drooling down a punctured trunk. Wirt grinds out a rumble that resonates roughly in his ribs—digs his talons into mealy feathers—curls himself taut and bristling around the unresponsive raven, _willing_ it to answer him, mentally pushing himself at its frigid emptiness as if _he_ can exert the same influence it uses to alter _him,_ but nothing works. It is stubbornly silent.

Then Wirt feels a prickle of ice at the nape of his neck… feels a glacial malevolence push into his mind, a many-legged horror digging room for itself within the gyri of his brain, burrowing, laying eggs, and in his bobbing throat his defeated whimper plummets into a fathomless growl.

_I̯̞ ́pr̤̄̇e̓f̘̥̘e͙̱͒r͑̇ it ̖̬̭w̼ͧ̚h͕̹̲ën̳̚ y̜̎͂ô̆̑ụ͗̚ beͥg.̫̮͌_

The words scritch into Wirt’s skull. His lips move with each syllable; he’s _parroting._ Horrified, he shifts into a sitting position with the raven held at arm’s length…

And gags down stomach acid when it falls apart all over again, a dark ooze that sticks to the bark of his fingers like coagulated blood. 

_You weͤr̩e͑͊ s̹̿ȕ̜p͖͚p͕͛o̲̍s̔̈ẹ͒d͌ ̜t͐o̚ grab your brother. I to̓l̈d͗ ̟y̅͂o̅ͧu̞ͅ ț͑o͒ͦ..._

An icicle pang pieces the base of Wirt’s cranium. He moans, head bowing toward his knees, but the terrible ache _twists_ until Wirt’s exhale stretches into a scream.

An arachnid caress roves up his spine and taps at the apex of his pain. _P͍e̞ȓh̊aͧp͗s̯ ͛I ͍h̯aͨv́e̒ not been… firm enough. You are a young runt, after all. Young and fuḻl͖ o̺f̟ ̝b̒a̍dͯ ha̲b͓i̟ts._

The raven melted, it’s only a spot of tar in the mud, so where is this voice coming from—

Lightning knifes the sky. A flashbulb of silver brilliance transforms night to day, and while Wirt quakes with the explosive clap of accompanying thunder and his eyes adjust to the breakneck plunge back to darkness he catches the whir of many, many wings disrupting the downpour.

A mob of black feathers descends around him, beaks and claws and spotlight eyes that might as well form a solid wall for how efficiently they trap the juvenile Beast. There must be fifty of them. Sixty. Their bodies are so abysmal and their eyes so numerous they seem to clot into a single conjoined mass, one monstrous face glaring at Wirt as if he is the lowest sort of parasite alive. The frost in his spinal column splinters outward to confine his whole body: frozen limbs, frozen lungs. 

_B̬a͑d̥ ̈b̀e͙h͐a̝v͛i̦o͋rͩ c̟a͖n̑ ̠b̞ẽ ̽c̩o̬r̃r͇e̿c̓ted̬,_ the first Beast purrs, and Wirt has to clamp his jaw shut with his hands to stop that legion timbre from escaping his own mouth. _You simply must be **b̏r͒okͦe̘n͛** of it. Now…_ The ravens lean in. Their eyes pulse brighter, cutting cauterized holes in the shadow. _B̥ṟi͚ǹg̘̰ y͐o̲uͬr̖ b̥r̠o͑ẗh̰e̗r̥ t͈o̍ ̮m̲e̿.͈_

Wirt is impelled out of his body and into the waterlogged earth. His forerunner directs him toward the mill… he feels his farthest threads slipping past the thickness of spilled bird-blood… he could materialize under the window to the boys’ room and call for Greg—hell, he could _walk in the front door,_ who could stop him, he is The Beast and Greg is His, His sacrifice to claim His soul to devour the most potent death of hope to burn and feed the almighty Flame—

Wirt balks. With a hoarse shout he is standing—not in front of the mill, but within the carnivorous circle of Edelravens, which cast a scalding pattern of blue, yellow, and pink across Wirt’s face. _Y̾o̺u͇ r̤e͂f̯ũs͍e̓?_ they ask, their amusement over the way Wirt bites his tongue as clear as glass. 

“You c-c-c-can’t h-have him,” the petrified boy grits out. He is too afraid to look at the ravens so his hands are covering his eyes but it isn’t doing any good, he can still see the sickening multicolored fire that surrounds him, can still hear the multi-tiered voice skittering into his ears like the sinuous slither of snakes, can still feel the chill of _something else_ reaching through his flesh to manipulate his bones, primed to liquify him and send him into the space within and without the Unknown. His predecessor’s presence clings to Wirt as intimately as his sodden clothes. He doesn’t know how to fight back, or how to flee, and the _anticipation_ of punishment is a punishment in and of itself. “Wh… what do you even w-want with him? _Why him?_ ”

The Edelravens chuckle without uttering a sound, their laughter mingling in the storm. _Of course I want him. When has a̦n̅yͨo̜̽n̻̚e͉ e͉̓v̰ͭ̃e̹r w̻̟̐an͍t̪̉e͒̎dͥ͗ **y̏o̻ú?**_

They attack—rushing like a swarm of cockroaches—and hook their talons onto his antlers, ignoring his wildly slashing claws to bite at his arms and gouge his back. He trips on a root when he lunges to run, witless with terror, and drops heavily to the dirt with the ravens still tearing at him as if he’s a delicacy. “G-get off me, get Ọ͋F̼̀F͌ͮ!” Wirt defeated The Beast when they grappled in the past, sent the devil crawling back into the hell it’d been banished to, but as Wirt reaches for the rage that made him victorious before he finds it frostbitten.

_You will brĭ̈n̓͒͗̐g̓̿͌͊̐ y̏͒̊͗o̿̋̋͆u̍͗͋́ř̂͂ͣ br̅̃̒͒ȏ͛̎͌th̀͊e͛͒r to me,_ the ravens command, and their statement rings like a promise. _You will take him to̹̯ ̞̺͇t̜̬͍ḥ̹̤e̦̲̪ ̣̫͍E̜̜͕d̫̫̺e̥̫̜l̼̙̲w̝̻̰o̥̭͎o̬̖d, and give me the sacrifice that I am owed._

Wirt inhales for a defiant roar; his enemy’s presence _crushes_ his chest as much in a weight of unconquerable darkness as in the weight of carrion-eating birds, and what should have been a roar cowers into a sob.

_Are you l̓ìs̋̾ten̒i͐̓̾n̊͌gͭ͛?_ And Wirt would swear on his own grave that there is a knee digging into his spine where the scavengers crowd over him, that there are hands gripping his antlers and not just avian claws. 

“You’re dead,” Wirt cries. He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes his forehead into the ground, into the brittle dead leaves and moist dirt and the stomach-turning stench of fresh gore. “You’re dead and you c̳a̮n̦’̠t͔ ̙̯h̳̲ạ̩v̘͚e̦̻ ͔̺̝h͖̰̭i̞̯͉m̱̹̝ ̱͍̞ _y͇̬̩̬o̘͎͍͕ṵ̪͙̲ ̠c̥̼͍̮ḁ̗͍͔̞n̼͚̜̞̭’͓̹̰̳̪t͎̣̰̹̹ h͚̣̖̱̦͍a͇͇̖̤̲͕v̹̣̝̼͚͎e̝͇͇̣̦̣ G̳̰̦̮̭r̠͚̮̟e͉̞̱͓̲g̻̲̬̤̝—_ ”

Subzero hostility pierces Wirt’s heart. His head is being wrenched back, exposing his throat. 

_T̲ḥ͋i̟̗s̻͎̾ ̞̉̋i͇s͓̏̽̽ ̤̏̎M͇͎̌Y̳͈ ͑͋f̞̘̓o̒ͥ͊r͖̊e̽̒s̃t̋,_ hisses the first Woodland King, _and you will leä̞̑r̘̭̓̈́n tô̞͛̏ ̾̈́ **ò̘̼b̹̻̱͌e̾ÿ̬̟́ͅ.**_

Wirt’s proprioception bottoms out. This time he fights the force dragging him under so hard he feels himself _ripping,_ an anguish that sears between every cell in his body and every facet of his consciousness, and only once that pain replaces his entire sense of self does space invert and deposit Wirt in a section of the woods he’s never been before. 

Beatrice’s fever triggers the second Wirt’s physical frame bashes into a warped, sable-barked trunk. The firework burst of heat makes him panic harder, ignorant of the ink-colored blood trickling from his split lip. His forerunner is still with him, all around him, _in him,_ and with a strangled noise Wirt backs himself against the tree he’d fallen against to take in the place he’s been abducted to… 

Every tree he sees in the immediate area is an Edelwood. There are fewer than twenty of them, all stunted and sickly as if they grew in a hurry over the corpses that fertilize their roots. The souls Wirt has sung into rest never leave an imprint of their faces in the bark, but these Edelwood are carved with tortured visages whose silently screaming mouths and wide open eyes pockmock the bark. A smaller graveyard… a mere grove compared to the vast forest that borders Duchurch… yet it’s a smallness like a bullet hole, a wound no less devastating than acres of widespread blistering decay.

_This hurts me m͙̠o͍͛͆̇r̍̾̈́ͅeͯ t̗̥̂h̹͗̏̎á̆͂n̐ ̼̾it̾̐ ̬̀h͓̞͌̽u̗͉̽ͮr̙t̬͐̚s̩̞ ̗̜yo͒ͤŭ̞͉͊,_ hums the former Beast. In those derisive words Wirt hears subtle tones of his stepfather—and then everything is agony.


	3. 🙞Backtrack🙜

Dawn marks Wirt passed out within the vicinity of the mill, although he has no knowledge that he ever left. He sleeps like the dead. And Wirt would probably sleep in longer, if not for the feathers going up his nose. 

He tries to snore and what feels like a feather duster smothered against his face tickles him into sneezing. His chest jumps, his eyes water—and he freezes, because if he sneezes any harder he will launch all the animals using him as a mattress into the air.

“Mmm…? Whuss… whusswrong?”

The Beast would like to rub his bleary eyes to better look at his visitors, but that would disturb all the tiny bodies covering him like a living, breathing blanket. Orioles and indigo buntings tuck themselves under his chin and around his face; a family of robins nestles in the warmth of his left armpit; some warblers and larks jostle in the crook of his right elbow and fight for perches along both of his arms; sparrows and blackbirds blink at him from his chest. There are more birds spaced along his stretched-out legs, and a few mammals—rabbits, mostly—have also attempted to cozy in around his antlers or near his sides where the birds will let them. At his first sneeze, the creatures all startle… yet rather than dart off they try to cuddle closer. Their assorted heartbeats drum against Wirt like the raindrops pattering upon the leaves draped protectively over his head.

They don’t want him to move. They don’t want him to leave. They’re afraid for themselves and for their Caretaker.

“Wazzit the…” Wirt has to tilt his head back to yawn, so he doesn’t smoosh the avians resting near his jaw. “The storm? Did the storm scare you guys?”

It’s not uncommon for wildlife to seek Wirt out as napping furniture. In the infrequent moments The Beast falls totally asleep, he often wakes up with songbirds in his antlers or squirrels on his shoulders, or a deer laying its head trustingly in his lap. He’s not surprised to start his morning under a densely woven thicket with visitors; the ground under him is mostly dry, thanks to the natural roof of twigs and leaves, and if not for his sleepy blue-flickering eyes it would be comfortably dim. The rhythm of rainfall is gentle and soothing. Wirt yawns again and carefully starts to stretch…

And cries out as if he’s been kicked in the stomach, limbs reflexively pulling inward and dislodging his guests. A chorus of irritated and frightened bird noises twitter within the close green walls of the thicket. Wirt apologizes profusely, grimacing, but as he blunders into total wakefulness he is conscious of just how much he _hurts._

His insides. His outsides. Muscles, bones, joints, organs, _all of it._ He feels like someone stuffed him into a meatgrinder and shaped him poorly back together. Every inch of him is tender. Since when had he ever ached like this—

“No, _no,_ no more...” Wirt props himself on his elbows; his furred and feathered audience refuse to leave and reorient themselves immediately around his new position, vocal about their upset. It can’t be helped, though. The last time Wirt had been this sore he’d woken up with claws in place of hands. 

Apprehension squirms below his diaphragm. He pushes up the sleeve on his right arm, then his left; his bark-gauntlets have not grown any higher than his sharply pointed elbows, and the rootlike projections that run under his skin and tangle with his veins terminate at his biceps. His talons tremble when he rolls his tattered pant cuffs toward his knees… but he finds the same stagnation is true of his legs. His hooves have not changed, and the timber of his calves encompases his patellae but not his thighs. A thinly relieved laugh leaves him like a cough, except laughing hurts, and then Wirt is unwillingly tugging his shirt up to inspect his stomach and chest…

Nothing has changed. He sees the same flat stomach, the same prominent bars of his ribs. No bark has budded to shield his abdomen overnight.

“Thank god… oh jeez… I really thought that… _oof._ ” The Beast deflates until he’s supine. The animals chitter at him in annoyance for making them move _again_ and Wirt doesn’t have the energy to stop some of the robins from burrowing under his damp untucked shirt. Their petite heads push up from between the buttons and they shut their eyes to doze. Even perfectly stationary, however, Wirt’s whole body is a bruise. He’s lucky only small creatures want to snuggle; if anything larger than a bunny wanted to nod off on him, Wirt would be in too much pain to abide it.

Warmed by snoozing fauna and lulled by the spring storm, Wirt’s shallow breathing gradually slows. Provided he can walk without groaning, maybe he can knock on the front door later with an apology bouquet for Beatrice… after a good night’s rest he can reluctantly admit that he could have been a _tad_ more considerate of her feelings after he’d schlepped her through a swamp. If he’d treated Sara like that… _ugh._ The very notion floods him with mortification. No wonder Beatrice was so furious with him. She’d been right not to trust him with Greg, especially after Wirt had been so rabid about stealing his own brother away to the Edelwood grove—

Wait. _Edelwood grove?_

Wirt finangles the robins out of his shirt and safely extricates himself from the distressed animals so that he can roll out from under the thicket. Once under the drizzling rain he totters shakily upright and tries to tighten the reins on his galloping heart. Why had he thought of an Edelwood grove? The only place populated by Edelwood he can think of is the faraway city of Duchurch, and Wirt would _know_ if another such place existed. He’s _always_ aware of the despair of souls giving up; each dying breath that takes root in the soil reaches him as a phantom pain that Wirt has merely adapted to over time. If he truly opened himself up to death in the Unknown, he could find every final resting place as unthinkingly as he can find his way back to Greg. 

“Hide,” Wirt tells the animals cowering in the thicket. He cannot articulate what has him so suddenly scared. He’d slept poorly, wracked by a horrible nightmare… yet the details of this nightmare evaporate as quickly as Wirt extends his thoughts toward them. He… he dreamed about an Edelwood grove. He dreamed that he tried to sacrifice Greg to the woods. It had been a harrowing vision, filled with three-ringed eyes and black feathers and anguish, but it was only a _dream._ The beacon of Greg’s soul continues to send sunbeams into Wirt’s awareness. Greg is _fine._ This Edelwood grove is no more real than the circus that Wirt dreamed he’d sold Greg to when he was fourteen.

 _It’s that stupid raven,_ Wirt concludes. He’d been so traumatized by what happened yesterday morning that he’s jumping at shadows and freaking out the animals. If he turns himself to face the hearthfire of Greg’s spirit, Wirt still experiences a stunning flash of _need-take-want..._ but it’s no more eviscerating than the aching rushes of love he feels sometimes when his brother says or does something unexpectedly touching. Emotion expands in his chest until it has no more room and must rise into his throat. He waits for violence to bayonet his _protect-crave-hold;_ it never does. Wirt doesn’t lose himself. 

Exhaling until he no longer wants to bawl like a child, The Beast crouches down to address the groveling creatures in the underbrush. “Everything is okay. I’m… I’m sorry for worrying you.”

None of the birds or mammals move. They watch Wirt with bright, anxious eyes and huddle against one another. Contrition bakes Wirt’s face. He must have been really stuck in that nightmare for his vexation to perturb these creatures so badly… they’re acting as if there’s _actual_ danger lurking outside.

He doesn’t begrudge them for waiting out the rain, though. With a gentle, if embarrassed smile, The Beast encourages the arching stalks of honeysuckle and raspberry to construct a more solid roof over his impromptu bed and wanders off into the forest. He’ll patrol around the mill for a while to reassure any other uneasy animals he comes across that all is well. There’s plenty of foraging to be had, and Wirt doubts Beatrice will feel justified in carrying a grudge if he leaves a bunch of her favorite things on the stoop. Hell—maybe he’ll add some of the absurdly feminine flowers growing on his antlers to the pile; then she’ll _have to_ forgive him.

Branches move imperceptibly overhead while Wirt meanders, shielding The Beast as best they can from the rain. Here and there he comes across caches of living things sheltering from the storm: a nest of squirrels in a trunk’s hollow; cardinals concentrated within the twigs of a leatherwood bush; a lone fawn with stark white spots tucked under a wild hydrangea. All of them have one thing in common… _fear._ And that makes _Wirt_ afraid again; he walks extra quietly over the mire, tense, and keeps himself alert for any obvious signs of trouble.

As Wirt’s rounds bring him farther from the mill, he notices that there are fewer and fewer animals. No birdsong rings through the trees. Eventually he is too skittish to take another step. He divides his awareness into the Unknown to see what he’s too nervous to explore in person, and— 

Wirt stifles his scream with a fist in his mouth. He feels the bird carcasses weighing on the earth, on _him,_ and he shudders as he withdraws himself from nature. 

His first thought is that this is a curse. A curse that _he_ unintentionally put on the mill out of spite, after Beatrice had slighted him. Enough hideous rage, enough vindictiveness, and a hex took over like an invasive species. Bram was right. The remaining animals are probably terrified that they'll be next in The Beast's line of fire—that explains how on-edge they are. “What have I done… what do I do?!”

He didn’t grow up in the Unknown—he’s not educated in enough Beast Lore to figure out how curses work or how to undo them once he’s accidentally cast them. Panicking, he decides to consult Beatrice; she might hate him but surely she’d put that aside to save her family!

Out of habit Wirt races to the first-floor window that he leans into for family meals; he’ll knock on the glass until he gets somebody’s attention and relay what he found in the forest. There’s a chance somebody has heard tales of similar blights caused by The Beast and will know how to proceed. Wirt hopes fervently that no sacrifices are required… there are enough poor birds decomposing in the muck already.

Wirt is only a few yards away from the house when Beatrice herself passes by the window. The Beast chickens out at the last moment and camouflages himself in a lilac bush that looks as if it’s seen better days before she—or anyone else—catches him outside.

Greg is the first person Wirt focuses on, latching onto Greg's profile as if it is the brightest light in a dark room. His little brother is seated at the kitchen table and scribbling on a scrap of paper; Wirt can’t tell from the lilac what Greg is supposed to be drawing, but whatever it is has antlers. Or branches. Or… whiskers? The mystery is dispelled when Beatrice prowls by and is momentarily distracted from whatever has her forehead furrowing in irritation.

“Is Wirt still in time out?” Greg asks her, pausing mid-circle (is that the sun in the corner? Why is he putting sunglasses on _the sun?_ )

“Yes, for the one hundredth time,” Beatrice answers without waiting for Greg to finish his question. “Of course he is.”

“How much longer?”

“Forever, as far as I’m concerned.” Greg frumps at this reply. Beatrice ignores his disappointment and changes the subject. “Whatcha drawing there?” She raps the table with her knuckle, making a visible effort to be friendly.

Greg blows an incredulous raspberry at her and proudly holds up his paper. “Can’t you tell? It’s Wirt!”

Wirt’s heart gushes the same time Beatrice’s scowl darkens. She turns away with a disgusted scoff. “Don’t forget to draw his big stupid crybaby eyes. Then we’ll know for sure who it’s supposed to be.”

Audrey is outside the lilac’s line of sight—well, _Wirt’s_ line of sight—but he hears her chastise Beatrice for being mean. From a different part of the house, Bram shouts a warning about angering The Beast, but Beatrice sneers back at him over Greg’s head. “Good! I _hope_ that narcissistic idiot can hear me! This weather sucks and I KNOW it’s his fault—I bet he’s sulking like a sad loser out there all _woe is me, I’m such a deep poet, I’m going to throw a fit because I didn’t get my way—_ ”

Greg doesn’t glance up from his drawing; he’s adding popcorn shapes to the branch-antlers, which Wirt believes are meant to be his blossoms. “Wirt’s allowed to be sad,” he says softly. And Beatrice’s mouth shuts.

A few of the lilac’s rotting sections fall away and are replaced by fresh growth. Wirt… hadn’t known how much he needed to hear that right now. How much he’s wanted to hear it all his life, when people hounded him for reasons why he is the way he is. When Greg adds “You’re allowed to be sad too” in the following beat to Beatrice, the irritable redhead blinks and turns away as if the comment caught her off guard. “I’m _not_ sad,” she snips. Ere anyone can question her, she storms out of the dining room.

Wirt’s resolve crumbles. Beatrice won’t believe him… she’ll dismiss his warning as a plea for attention or a scheme to see Greg, and Wirt can’t even be upset because if he’d done this yesterday she’d have been right. He has to allow her justified anger to run its course. The best way to get back on her good side, to convince her that he is trustworthy, is to have patience and give Beatrice space. A _selfish_ Beast would batter down the door until he is heard; a selfless one understands that he can’t force people to do what he wants. 

Unwilling to slink back into the woods just yet, Wirt lingers by the kitchen window. Greg taps his borrowed pencil on his chin and studies his lovingly rendered doodle like a professional portrait artist. Inspiration strikes; he scrawls a shorter lump next to his interpretation of Wirt, and then an even shorter lump next to that, and when Wirt grasps that his sibling is adding himself and Jason Funderburker to the tableau he responds by making the lilac bloom so grandly that not even the rain can dilute its perfume.

Wirt doesn’t need to bother Beatrice with curse advice. If something malignant is defiling the forest and the mill, The Beast will tackle it himself. He’ll protect his brother, Beatrice, and the family on his own.

He spends that day curled protectively around the mill like a fox around its cub, draped into the flowers and vines and mill-saplings as a defensive net. The sun ferris-wheels unseen behind opalescent nimbuses and he doesn’t budge from his post. He listens to the little bluebirds pretending to be The Beast and chasing one another through the house; he dies inside when Greg brings up random inappropriate anecdotes about Wirt’s “weird teenage behavior,” which make Bram and Calvin snicker like hyenas; he wants to reassure Ma’am and Sir when they mutter about a curse in their private room; he makes flowers as small as fingernails bloom along the window frame that Beatrice broods from, hoping she’ll notice the gesture and realize he’s sorry. It rains enough for the river to seep from its usual border and to Wirt it feels like tears overflowing from weary eyelids. He dearly desires to brush away the storm and spill light on the property… but the rain keeps everyone safely indoors, so he holds the family close to him like he holds the spooked songbirds and racks his brains for a solution. He’s _The Beast,_ damn it. The Eternal God of the Forest. The Guardian and The Gravedigger. The Antler-Crowned Prince of the Unknown. He should fear nothing. 

He… can’t keep his family locked in their birdcage forever.

Night tarnishes the deep silver of evening. Wirt has directed a cluster of vines to weave along the roof to patch a few weak spots that might leak. Nobody can hear him in the wet leaves and damp petals and saturated mud, but The Beast wishes everyone sweet dreams anyway. As long as Wirt is stationed outside the windows and arched over the doorways, no enemy can reach these beloved people. While the house shushes with the reassuring harmony of slumber, he watches. And waits. 

The raven—which should not exist, which should be _gone_ —alights onto the tallest tree on the forest-side of the river and glares at the mill as if it can see through the ivy to Wirt hidden within. The Beast feels its presence like a cigarette burn against his skin. A concoction of rage and trepidation sloshes like bleach in his stomach as he goes corporeal and crouches on the rooftop, growling, the shimmer cast from his irises charring the rain with fire of blue, violet, and venomous yellow-green. There’s a wretched starving pang being corkscrewed into Wirt’s center—his breath catches—but before the raven can turn his thoughts from it to Greg he shreds through the woods and up the skyscraping sycamore to swipe the bird off its seat and slam it into the trunk.

“It’s not a curse—it’s _you,_ isn’t it? _You_ killed all those birds—”

Without warning, the raven molders. Wirt snarls and wipes his palm off on the tree’s smooth sallow bark. Where the hell had this second raven come from? Was there an Edelwood nearby leaking oil and infecting something that scavengers were picking at? Could it be that there were Edelcoyotes in the forest, and Edelraccoons and Edeldeer? Or were these ravens something unique like the black turtles that crawled throughout the Unknown?

As if in response to Wirt’s mental questions, another foul glare sticks him from afar. The Beast rears his head and immediately finds _another_ raven in the rainy blackness… and another farther from that one, and another…

He travels past dirt and streams and moss to smash every raven that reveals itself. His talons are caked in slime and stray feathers. Each pair of villainous eyes that flash at him strike the tinder of hunger— _get Greg take Greg take him TAKE HIM_ —yet Wirt uses this jaw-clenching rush as fuel to destroy the birds, redirecting bloodthirsty impulses toward his enemy. How could he have believed that it was _his_ fault that all those songbirds had been harmed? What other nasty thoughts had the consciousness behind the Edelravens sowed into his mind? 

...Why is he so certain there is something _puppeteering_ the Edelravens in the first place?

He nabs the last raven by the wing before it can fly away from him. The birds appeared in a zig-zag pattern that has brought him out to the curb of his link to Beatrice; if this one escaped, he’d have to make his friend ill to chase it. 

“What g-game are you playing?” Wirt shakes the raven by its wing; it gives no sign of being in pain or distress, though it widens its eyes at him so Wirt salivates and he thinks _go back to the mill, Greg is ours, wasting time, the boy the boy the boy._ There’s a haunting creeping buzz at the back of Wirt’s brain that warns him he’s done this before, but he doesn’t want to mix up reality with whatever nightmare he’d thrashed through last night. “What do I have to do to k-k-keep you away from m̞͂y̭͌ ̖ṱ̇er͆r̄iṯ̲o̯̤r̤͙y̭͂?”

The raven braces its feet against Wirt’s wrist, pulling its wing taut. Then a stiletto of agony sheathes itself in Wirt’s brainstem.

 _F̆̔ó̈́l͈ͬl͖̇o̗̲w̞̑ ̤m̙̲e,_ orders the raven—and it tears off its own wing to fall to the ground, festering to sludge before it hits the deadfall. 

A heart attack won’t kill Wirt, but that’s what he thinks is happening to his body right now, and he wishes he was dead.

That was the unmistakable voice of the _first_ Beast. Wirt’s forerunner had just spoken to him through the raven, and this has happened before, it happened _yesterday,_ why did Wirt forget? Why can’t he remember everything? The dead birds, the raven, the _ravens plural._ Greg in danger. Wirt drowning in the Unknown. There are boards nailed over essential slots of time in his subconscious and he hyperventilates trying to pry them off but his head _hurts._ The original Beast wants Wirt to kidnap his little brother and Wirt cannot recall why or if there’s any particular reason at _all_ —the only thing Wirt’s got is the conviction that his predecessor must NOT win. Wirt has to fight him, fight as hard as he can and make sure Greg never goes near the Edelwood grove…

 _Oh._ It wasn’t a dream.

Wirt’s heart kicks like a mule behind his breast bone. The prior King of the Unknown is toying with him… and as much as it scares him—as viscerally as his entire being rejects it—Wirt figures that so long as he’s ignorant of the forces influencing his life, the first Beast has an intolerable advantage. If Wirt wants the ravens to stop antagonizing him—if he wants to be with Greg, to be safe and rational and not an unpredictable monster—he has to face the source of his problems. Running away is what the old Wirt did… the one who died, and never made it home.

He follows the next raven to present itself. He hears his Beastly ancestor chuckling in his marrow as if the ancient devil too can feel the broil of fever that accompanies Wirt’s break from the mill’s boundaries. 

Uphill and along the river, matchstick orbs lure Wirt farther and farther away, looking like a trail of porch lights in the gloom. Anxiety quakes down his frame. _I need to know what’s going on,_ he tells himself weakly. _This has to end. This… this might be my one chance to…_

To what? Defeat the old Beast for good? This is stupid, this is _suicidal,_ he should turn back and get Beatrice and absolutely positively not try something so reckless and half-baked on his own, why is he doing this why why why why—

He reaches the Edelwood grove as if he’s encountered the prestige of a grand magic trick; one by one the twisted trees become visible from the mist, bark whorled and pitted to shape haunted masks. Wirt hadn’t felt the ulcer of tragedy while he traveled and the circle of graves bludgeons him with longing-loathing. He’s been here. He’s been here, and he was supposed to bring Greg here too—but he didn’t bring Greg, and that means he’s going to be _punished._ “Oh, god…” Wirt holds his head in his hands, beside himself. “He t-told me to follow him and I did, w-w-why did I listen, what am I doing here…”

 _G̝òͮo̎d̰ͥ ̠ͭwhelp. C̱͕oͯ̀m̜̹e̍͊ h̲̔e̱̭r̘̲e̅̓._

Wings slice through the deluge. Ravens batter Wirt’s antlers and pull him inexorably to the Edelwood—except Wirt fears what awaits him in the rows of hopeless souls so he digs his hooves into the muck and struggles, snarling. The true Beast is in there, the vengeful god of purgatory that killed the birds and thirsts for Greg’s demise and wants to damage Wirt until there’s nothing left. Wirt can’t let himself get caught again, can’t risk this altercation, because what if he forgets again and his enemy is still here and Wirt has to warn Beatrice and Greg, he _has to._

_I must teach you a̙̲ṇ̿o̪ͅt̽͗ẖe͕͇r͛̓ ͎le̋̆s̝s̤̓ọ̘n̄. The first one did not… s͎̒ink͎̆ ̎in͐̉, as I had hoped._

Several ravens rocket into Wirt’s back, hitting heavy as brass knuckles, and he stumbles forward and past the grove’s perimeter. There’s a rush of wind behind him—as if a guillotine severed the air; when Wirt flings an arm back to brace himself against an Edelwood and haul himself from the coppice, a nauseating shrill that could shatter crystal splits his skull. 

He falls to the forest floor on the side of the Edelwood. The ravens that had brought him in swarm together and clot into a single conjoined mass, one monstrous face glaring at Wirt— _no more, not again_ —

The sobbing boy makes a resolution: _I will not go through one more night of this._ He’ll leave himself a clue, a reminder of what is here so he won’t fall for this trick again, so if he comes out of tonight alive he will at least have the knowledge necessary to put himself on more level ground with the thing that wants to demolish him. There’s a river that winds around the eastern side of the grove… the very same that drops into the falls near the grist mill. If Wirt can spill some of the grove’s oil into the current, then...

Pressure mashes Wirt’s face into the mud; he chokes, swallowing puddles that taste faintly of despair. _B͈̅r̖̲ī̑n͋̆g͙͍ ͑yͩo̟u̦̫r b̺͎ro͓͋t͗ͨh̖e̠͌r̞̞ h̥e͆ͅre̥ͥ, or I shall hͧu̦̐ṙ̺t̪ͥ yö́͊u͖̫ until you b̙̈́e̘g̻̒ f̥̂o̰̦r a ̈d͖̜ë͕́a̞̐th that will never come. Defy me, and s͚̚u͍̜f͈f͉̥e̖̭r̠̦. O̎̋b͕̆e̥̽y̪͆ ͗̅m̦̫e̓͂… and I shall s̯̺ho͇͗w̰̚ yo͛̈́uͬ̈ ̇͒m̬̙e̟͓r̰cÿ͂._

Wirt reaches into the network of Edelwood roots knotted under the earth; it is akin to reaching through a cadaver, slippery and repulsive. He strains through the tissue-taut resistance to direct tendrils that don’t want to obey him, they want to obey _The Beast,_ so Wirt seethes through his pain and reminds the Edelwood who rules them now. _I am your Beast. Grow, damn you. Into the river. Seek the water, grow, GROW—_

Wirt loses concentration and shrieks at a sensation that can only be described as nails being pushed up from his vertebrae and through his skin. He lies on his stomach, prone, and cannot fathom which way is up or down—there’s only the suspension points of red-hot signals sizzling down the highway of his nervous system and the purring glee of the abomination trying to turn him inside out. 

_N̾̉o ̲͕̓d̘̼̿i̺̚s͉t̂ra̿cṫi͉o̔n͈s,_ hisses the trounced monarch. _I tire of t̺̦́ḥ̺̍e̗̜s̼̊e le̥ss̳oͧn̂s, w͓e̥l̾p̈. When I want your brother G̺re̫g̼o͇r̹y̟, you will…?_

Sheer lightning rips through Wirt’s body; he turns his head from the mud to spit something hot and liquid that feels like it’s leaking from his abdomen. “If you w-want Greg so badly, w-w-why make me forget? Why teach me ‘lessons’ that I’m n-not going to remember anyway?!”

 _Ȃn̝i͗m̟͗a͖ͥls̓ d̲̓ô̝ n͖͔o̭͌t̻͙ a͗̐l̪̾w̗͐ay̒s remember how they form their habits,_ the first Beast explains snidely. He says nothing else, and bile spurts up Wirt’s throat.

“Are you… _conditioning_ me…?” Vertigo throws spots behind his Wirt’s fluttering eyelids. A few Edelwood roots poke from the bedrock into the river and he winces at the shock of cold. “B-but then—why give me a chance to rest or make me f-forget at all? Why not wear me down, inch by inch, every hour of every day? Wouldn’t that work _faster_ for you?” 

A thought. So obvious that he can hear an imaginary Beatrice scolding him for not seeing what’s right in front of him. He blinks and a tremulous smile walks the tightrope of his mouth.

“Y-you’re… You’re too weak. You don’t have the _energy_ to spare—”

Another whip of torture. Wirt’s eyes roll back. _I have energy enough to bring you here, **r̅unͬ̉ẗ́.** Again and again. Ȧs manͬ́y t̽ḯ̄m̓e̾͂̂s͆̓̈ a̓́̏s̍̉ Ï̓ w̌a̿n̏t̍, until you LEAP to do my bidding wit̰h͈o̲u̞̮t̠̭ q͈̯u͎̠e͓̥ͅs̺͓̯t̺i̻͎o̳̬̺n͇̘͉͓i̤̟̙̟n̦̘̫͎g͚ w͕̜̥h̲͕̜̼̼y̯͎̠—_

“Yeah, b-because y-y-yanking me back and forth is w-working _so well_ for you. Are you the one who gathered all these p-poor souls here?” Wirt woozily interrupts the dethroned King and almost bites the tip of his tongue. “How? If you can plant new Edelwood without me, why not grab Greg _yourself?_ Why does it HAVE to be me?”

_Y͔o̫u͔ p͎u̫̮t̹̗r̠̜i͚d̲, i̥̠̥n͎͙̟s̯͔o̼̦l̯̖ḛn͍̞t͕͔̦—_

Wirt churns out a blunt growl. He shakes and his intestines are knitting themselves into new shapes but he takes the old Beast’s anger as a sign that he is _right,_ or on the right track, and now _Wirt_ is the one backing his prey into a corner instead of the other way around. When he speaks next his voice cracks as badly as it did when he was thirteen—but on his belly he feels more like a dangerous serpent than a lowly worm.

“I think all I ha-have to do is outlast you. You’re nothing b-but a vulture. A scavenger. And I bet I can f-figure out your game before anyone else has to join your sick excuse for a graveyard.”

Above him, an infinity of color rotates so rapidly in the conglomerate ravens’ eyes that the woods flicker as if lit by a strobe.

 _Y͓̰̹͋ͨȯ͕̰̱̓u̻͒͌ͅ a̚ȑ͕͙̎e͎ ͉g̣o̖͋̾i͙̼̤n͕͍̓g ̇ẗ͚ỏ̍ ͋reg͖r͔êt challenging me,_ the original Beast answers calmly. 

Whatever Wirt planned to say in retaliation is lost in a fount of blood.

🙞 ------------------------- 🙜

Wirt had been counting on the grove polluting the river to give him a sign that a threat lurked beyond the mill and outside his omniscience… but in the morning he doesn’t recognize the inundation of turtles as the harbingers of misfortune that they are. He’s been reset.

The brothers interact, and it goes better than expected; Beatrice confronts Wirt about the long-distance trips he doesn’t recall taking; the conspiracy of ravens returns en force—an act of wrath or desperation from the deposed Beast—and Wirt exits, hoping to get away from Greg before he acts on the puppet strings strangling him; ultimately, Wirt isn’t strong enough… and since he can’t tell Beatrice outright what’s really going on, he grates out the truth as best he can. “A̋ ̦m͉u̍rͬd̘e̤r. A̅ c̹o̒n̗s̱p̞ïr͐aͤc͒ȳ.” Names for the throng of black-feathered birds that control him.

There’s another term for a population of ravens: _an unkindness._

As Wirt lays under a sprawling fern a mile or so from the Woodsman’s cabin, doing his best to inhale with broken ribs and a collapsed lung, he can’t help but appreciate the bitter irony. As The Beast, he is _made_ for harshness and deceit. But he hopes the people he’s helped will someday see the kindness in his cruelty… perhaps even forgive him. He just wanted to help.

He just wanted to help.


	4. 🙞Apology🙜

The Woodman runs to his Anna and thwacks at the roots of her Edelwood with single-minded determination. He anticipates a shriek of pain when his blade bites into the dusky wood—but his daughter tearfully encourages him to hurry, showing eagerness to escape but none of the usual distress of someone sealed inside one of these vile trees. Does this mean he isn’t too late? Are his desperate efforts not futile after all? 

“Please, Father, please.” Her stricken wailing decrescendos from fatigue and relief. The trunk splinters upward and the Woodsman takes to pulling the wood off with his bare hands, kicking at the Edelwood’s base to loosen larger chunks. All the time he murmurs encouragement to his only child, his tone surprisingly tender considering how barbaric his anger at The Beast had been. He helps her push her way from the tree like a chick cracking itself from an egg—though like a chick hatching, he must exercise caution in how much he assists her. He’s learned hard lessons in attempting to free other lost souls from their graves… the Edelwood does not want to give back what it has already claimed, and his eyes keep darting to Anna’s face to see if she’s coughing blood or struggling with any ligonous protrusions that might be sewn into her skin.

“That’s it, there’s my brave girl…” Dessicated branches crack off and drop to the dirt, leaves withered to dust. The Edelwood dry rots while the pair work so that each section removed comes away easier, flaking off like paper, and soon Anna has thrashed free. She’s in her father’s fierce embrace before she’s even pulled her feet from the mulch. 

The Woodsman kisses the top of her head, her ears, careful not to crush her in his arms; Anna hugs him back just as hard, laughing and crying and not at all embarrassed that she’s leaving streaks of snot and tears on her father’s travel-worn shirt. Any heartbroken apologies on the old man’s side are immediately cowed by the girl’s joyous celebration. He is back home. Anna is alive. They might not have won the game that The Beast wanted to play, but they also haven’t _lost_ —in fact, neither had dared to hope that they could gain so much after so many long, lonely months of solitude and sadness.

“Anna, my dear Anna, are you not harmed?” The Woodsman backs away slightly so that he can better assess his child for injuries. If he finds even a single _splinter,_ The Beast better pray for his life. “The Edelwood… it didn’t… it didn’t hurt you, did it?”

Anna trembles, although it appears more related to her fading terror and not from physical wounds. She methodically pats down her arms, legs, and core, and breaks into a small smile that eases the tension from her tear-streaked face. “N-no, I’m all right. Better than all right. It was… uncomfortable, but now...” Her voice trails off and she leans in for another, softer hug, fingers clutching at her father’s jacket while he strokes her mussed hair. “I’m so glad you’re here. I knew you’d come back.”

The Woodsman doesn’t know how to respond. If not for this cruel game, he might’ve spent the rest of eternity feeding The Beast, never knowing that Anna waited for him faithfully in an empty house.

Once the dirt and bits of bark have been dusted from Anna’s clothes, father and daughter spend a timeless moment sitting on the front porch, content in their companionable silence and the reality of one another’s nearness. Both are drained from what they’ve survived. In time, the horrors of what _might_ have happened will dawn on them… but for now it is enough that they are alive and together. The Woodsman has his arm draped protectively across Anna’s shoulders; she leans into him, gazing thoughtfully at the spot where she’d been trapped.

This morning, she’d run out of the house to tell Wirt that she couldn’t find his brother anywhere in the cabin. “He was _just_ here! I heard him playing upstairs!” Anna had hoped that Wirt would know where Greg had gone, and instead The Beast had turned on her. The firefly gleam of his eyes fragmented. He ordered her to “hold still,” and then Anna had been pinned by roots and wood—caged in seconds. She scarcely understood what was happening. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Her heart had broken, because _this_ wasn’t The Beast whom her animals adored, not The Beast who indulged in terrible romance novels and brought strawberries for breakfast and discussed poetry with her after Greg had gone to bed. _That_ Beast had become a dear friend in a short time—Anna felt as if she’d known him forever, and hoped he’d stay until her father returned—but now Anna ponders just how much of what Wirt had shown had been… a lie.

Deception is a hallmark of The Beast, after all. 

Anna is suddenly overcome with ire. How could Wirt have done this to her? Her father? That unexpected freckled heroine? Her fixation on where the Edelwood had stood burns red… then white, then blue, then yellow, until she’s blinking in surprise and nudging her father to look at the same spot.

“Father? Do you see this?”

Flowers are pushing themselves up from the Edelwood compost, growing quick and graceful before Anna’s eyes. Alabaster tulips stand near starry clusters of azure and amethyst hyacinth; the blooms crowd the center of the lawn before sprouting outward, taking over any unclaimed dirt or grass. Despite her father’s warning, Anna jumps up from her seat to trod barefoot through the garden. To her amazement, lemon-colored daffodils open their trumpet-shaped faces wherever she steps. “Is this because you defeated The Beast?” Anna asks, mystified. She skips toward the well and glances back at the vibrant yellow buds that sprout in her wake—sprinkles of sunshine amid the cool blues and crisp snowy petals. “Is this like… well, in stories, when evil is defeated…”

A silken rustle sussurates around the perimeter of the cabin. The harsh black thorns become verdant as emeralds… and through those thorns, standing out like pastries on a platter, hundreds upon hundreds of creamy butter-yellow roses begin to blossom.

Anna’s jaw drops. She’s read enough flower lore to guess at the meaning of this late spring miracle.

The Woodsman joins her by the well, openly astonished at the transformation surrounding the homestead. His eyes are so wide it’s as if he never wants to close them. “It can’t be… The Beast is not so easily vanquished, especially not by some foolish old man and one reckless young woman.” He tries to lift his foot, and gasps at the vigorous mound of wild strawberries that are fanning their rounded leaves near his shoe.

Possibilities are rushing feverishly through Anna’s mind. There’s a message here, a plea, an admission, but until she completely understands The Beast’s intentions she decides to keep her suspicions to herself. She clears her throat to bring her father from his negative musings. “Why not? Mayhaps one foolish old man and a reckless young woman were _precisely_ the pair necessary to send the demon back to his forest.” She leans down to touch her palm on the satiny tops of some tulips; it feels as if the flowers are primly kissing her hand.

Her father grunts. Eventually he sighs, and sags as if he no longer possesses the strength to stand upright. Anna peers up at him curiously and starts to ask what’s wrong but bites her tongue at the regret lining his face.

“I… I should go find that girl,” he mutters. “She doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into with that lantern…”

Panic makes Anna seize his jacket in her fist. At the last second she tries to make it look like an affectionate squeeze, and she reinforces her tone with a surety that’s blossoming in her stomach like the wall of roses. “I think she can handle it, Father. She looked pretty tough… and that Beast isn’t the same one there was before.” A nervous giggle leaps off her tongue. “Did you—did you see the way she _headbutted him?_ She’s worse than one of the nannygoats! If I were The Beast, I’d not soon be back for more of _that_ punishment.”

A small huff escapes the Woodsman. He seems surprised to have made the expression of mirth, and even more surprised to be smiling. When he sees Anna grinning at him with new tears glittering in her eyes he tweaks her nose as if they’d never been separated—and it’s then that Anna knows her father has made the decision to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus Tracks: "Willow Tree March" by The Paper Kites; "Moonbird" by Roger Webb; "Nightmare" by Flora Cash; "Like a Stone" by Dennis Lloyd
> 
> I essentially wrote this whole part and then deleted it and rewrote the entire thing all over again. The first chapter was originally from Wirt's point of view... but what's the fun of that? You'll know what was going through his mind later ~~maybe~~
> 
> If you're of an appropriate age and you've been reading Prince of the Unknown and thinking "this story needs more lemons" thennn have I got the oneshot for you! Whiggity was sweet enough to write [this gem.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22286620) It takes place during the boys' stay with Anna at the cabin; it's technically not canon, but if you want to think of it that way, I can't stop you ;)
> 
> This part's a strange one, so don't be shy if you have questions or need clarification. I'll try to dispel as much confusion as possible without spoiling anything.
> 
> Thank you to all the readers that have stuck with me, and to those of you just joining now! One of the most enjoyable parts of my week is sitting down to write this self-indulgent fanfic and reading the delightful comments you guys leave. Hope everybody is having a great 2020 so far!


End file.
